Into the Fire

by Elizabeth Moon

  “Not if they emerge?” Grace scowled. This might be as serious as Hermann looked.

  “No. They will. You’ve already had IV and parenteral medication, the room’s getting extra oxygen, and if necessary we’ll intubate and put you on a respirator. At this point, if we are alert and don’t make mistakes, you’ll live and recover, but if you walked out of here and did not receive exemplary treatment somewhere else, you’d be dead by noon tomorrow.”

  “Oh.” Grace had not imagined it being anywhere near that bad.

  “So I expect your full cooperation with all procedures,” Maillard said. “And full disclosure of all symptoms. Anything, no matter how minor. We’re not talking about full functionality in a regrown arm; we’re talking about survival.”

  “I’m in favor of survival,” Grace said. She could feel her heart pounding. That couldn’t mean the cramp in her foot, could it?

  “Excellent,” Maillard said. “Then we understand each other. If all goes well, the next two days will be the worst. If not…well, let’s not go there. Depending on your latest lab results, you may be able to have communication with your office late this afternoon, but I strongly advise you to let your subordinates do the work. You’re not young, and this toxin has killed people much younger than yourself.”

  “Thank you,” Grace said.

  Maillard raised an eyebrow. Just one.

  “For telling me,” Grace said. “One likes to be aware of the level of danger.”

  “Good,” Maillard said. “I’ll see you again when the next lab results are in. Until then, take it as easy as you can.” She left.

  “You ratted on me,” Grace said to Hermann. “She’s a formidable woman, but I doubt she’s like that with everyone.”

  “I didn’t want to see two formidable women butting heads,” Hermann said. “Now she’s gone, I’m going to check your fine-motor control in both hands…”

  The rest of the morning Grace endured more treatments and tests. Mac showed up around lunchtime with a report from her office and his own activities.

  “And Ky?” Grace asked. “How’s she? Has she gotten in touch with Kvannis yet?”

  “No. I suspect she and Rafe are…” His fingers intertwined. “Last person she’d want to talk to is someone official, I guess. You know Teague’s over there playing butler—keeping interruptions to a minimum, is my guess.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Something peculiar, actually. Military and civilian police are indeed looking for three fugitives from a military hospital here in Port Major. Thing is, as far as I can find out, they were never here, and this is the only military hospital in the city. There’s that psychiatric ward in the Joint Services base hospital, but my police contact told me the search isn’t for crazies, but for personnel possibly infected with a dangerous disease and under quarantine.”

  “Quarantine. That’s one way to hide people.”

  “Hide who?”

  “Not sure we should discuss this here.”

  “Sure thing. I hear your doctor coming. I left minutes ago.” Mac ducked into the room’s facility and out the far door seconds before Dr. Maillard came in.

  “So you’ve had a visitor, but I don’t see piles of work on your bed. That’s good.” Maillard slapped a fat file down on the bed-table. “Ren says you like data, and don’t come apart if it’s not all positive, so here you are.” She opened the folder. “This is your basic chart. Red lines: level of toxin by organ system. Blue line: temperature. Green line: blood pressure. Yellow: heart rate on top, respirations below. Black dotted line: the average rate at which adults clear the toxin. Notice your clearance is well below that line: you’re not clearing it as fast as most, probably because you’re much older than the others we’ve seen.”

  “Having it around longer isn’t good, I gather.”

  “No. The longer it’s in an organ system, the more damage it does.” She stopped abruptly and looked closer at Grace’s face. “Did you know you have little marks on your face? Have you been poking it with anything?”

  “No…”

  “Let’s see.” Maillard pulled back the bedcovers and pushed up the gown. “Yes. Petechiae. Not a good sign at all. That confirms my concerns, and here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to knock you out, chill you—which, yes, slows your metabolism of the toxin, but also its action. Then we’re going to use specific chemicals, different for each organ system, to extract the toxin rather than waiting for your body to clear it, using procedures similar to dialysis for kidney failure.”

  “How long will it take? When will I wake up?” Grace asked.

  “If all goes well, we’ll be done with the clean-out in eight hours, and you’ll be awake, or at least in normal sleep, in another three. These procedures will save as much function as possible, but you’ll still have aftereffects and may need rehabilitation for several tendays after. You’ll need to have your implant out to avoid damage to it; the neuro treatment could scramble its wits. Since you’re a high-ranking government official, you’ll need to hand it over to a trusted subordinate with all the proper clearances for secure storage. Who would that be?”

  “The visitor I just had, Master Sergeant MacRobert.”

  Maillard touched the call button. “Maillard. Page a Master Sergeant MacRobert and see if he’s left the building. I need him here.

  “I notice you have a guard on your door,” Maillard continued, turning to Grace. “That’s good. You should have a detail with you—outside your door, including during the treatment, with full recording capacity. Can MacRobert arrange that?”

  “Yes,” Grace said. Her mouth felt dry; she reached for the glass on the bedside tray.

  “No more than a sip. And only because you’ve already had food today, so a little water’s not the problem it might be.” Maillard leaned both arms on the bed table. “You need to know that there’s a chance that you’ll die during this procedure. It’s never been done on anyone your age, and though your baseline is good, much like someone fifteen years younger, we’re still dealing with an aging metabolism. If you were clearing the toxin at the normal rate, we’d take the slower route. But we don’t have time for that now. The petechiae indicate that serious damage is already occurring.”

  “It’s done,” Grace said. “Mac knows where everything is.”

  Maillard tipped her head to one side. “Are you two more than co-workers?”

  “Friends,” Grace said. “Who sometimes—not all the time—comfort each other.”

  “That’s good. Total solitaries die more often, in my experience.”

  Mac poked his head in the door. “You called?”

  “I did,” Maillard said. “The Rector needs a fairly radical procedure that will involve general anesthesia, hypothermia, and a series of drugs to yank the toxin out of various organ systems. She’ll be on machines similar to, but not the same as, the most advanced medbox technology. She needs her implant removed and properly stored, secure, until she can have it reinserted.”

  “It’s got classified—”

  “I understand that. She says you hold a high enough security rating to take charge of it. Is that correct?”

  “Yes,” Mac said, after a glance at Grace. “But I don’t have a proper carrier.”

  “We do. It’ll be bulkier than the usual: full nutrient bath, oxygenator, power supply, so it’ll be ready to go back in when she’s ready. I would prefer you stay in the room when it comes time to remove it, so there’s a chain of control.”

  “Absolutely,” Mac said. “Will you do that right now, or do I have time to inform the Rector’s closest relatives?”

  Maillard shook her head. “The longer we wait the more chance of irreversible damage that will affect her quality of life. Every fifteen minutes matters. You can call them during the procedures, as long as you do not leave this facility and maintain control of her implant. If things go as planned, it should take no more than eight hours—preferably only five or six—and she’ll be ready for reimplant
ation sometime after midnight.”

  “Please,” Grace said, glancing at Mac.

  “I’ll be here,” Mac said. “And I’ll stay. We have that other situation under control, Rector, don’t worry about it. I’ll have a complete report for you when you’re ready.”

  She was ready now, except that she wasn’t; she felt dull, heavy, aware at some merely physical level of something wrong inside. And the fear gnawed at her, fear she did not want to admit.

  QUINDLAN INDUSTRIES & CONSULTING HOME OFFICE

  Benny Quindlan faced his uncle’s senior operations officer over the smaller desk in his uncle’s outer office.

  “That was the stupidest thing you could have done,” he said.

  “You’re calling your uncle stupid?”

  “You’re telling me he ordered it?” Benny was almost sure his uncle hadn’t.

  “Not exactly ordered it.” Maxim Furness had started to sweat; Benny could see the shine on his face. “But he wanted her out of the way.”

  “And she’s not. And she knows, and the military knows, and all Vatta knows that someone had access to a quaternary poison gas that is supposed to exist in only two military facilities on the entire planet. Where the inventory can be checked, and probably already has been.”

  “It could’ve been Kvannis; he hates her enough.”

  “It could have been but it wasn’t—it was us. You, rather.”

  “She’ll be out of her office for several tendays, if she even survives. And already the confusion there has enabled us to make some inroads in her security. We’ll get more—”

  “Which will be found and healed by those ISC techs she’s got staying with her.”

  “Ah, but they’re illegals now. They overstayed their visa.”

  “And you know that because—”

  “Because we have contacts in Customs & Immigration, just like every other commercial giant on this planet.”

  “Even so—” Benny began when the outer door opened and his uncle, silver-haired and impressive as always in his perfectly tailored clothes, arrived for the day’s business. He and Max both stood.

  “Good morning, Max; good morning, Benny.” Michael Quindlan gave them each a polite nod. “Ben, my office.”

  Benny gave Max a look that he hoped was half as commanding as his uncle’s, and followed Michael into his office. The desk there was big enough for two men to lie down on. Michael waved him to a chair, the better of the two that sat before the desk.

  “Sit down, sit down. I’m glad you’re here this morning. We have several situations to discuss that I would prefer not to do over any phone.” His uncle pulled out and set up on the desk a security cylinder and thumbed it on. Lights along one side blinked green, one after another. “What were you talking to Max about?”

  “Using gas at Rector Vatta’s house.”

  “Ah. And your view on that?”

  Now he was on the microscope slide, exposed under his uncle’s flinty eye. “I think it was a bad mistake,” he said. Michael nodded permission to go on. Benny gave his reasons.

  “Good analysis,” Michael said, at the end. “I had intended to start this morning by saying much the same to Max, but you have saved me the trouble.” He grinned, more feral than humorous. “All I’ll need to say is Benny was right. And assess him a fine.” He paused, opened a drawer, and pulled out a neatly bound folder. “I think it’s time you took a look at this.” He pushed it across the desk.

  Benny picked it up. “Project 43.36?”

  “Yes. Do you recognize the code?”

  “No, Uncle.”

  “Good. It’s not in any of the usual sequences. Tell me: what do you know about Miksland?”

  “What we were taught: a terraforming failure, barren, just rock and ice. Not worth worrying about with all the fertile land we have without it. Until recently, when suddenly it seems there’s a military base on it, some question about what else is there, and I’ve seen a fuzzy image of some kind of big hairy animal with tusks—”

  “Where?”

  “One of those conspiracy sites you asked me to keep an eye on.”

  “Right. Well. In fact, it’s not a terraforming failure, it’s not barren, and—though it’s not widely known—it belongs to us.”

  “Belongs—?”

  “To us. The Quindlan family. We…managed to tack that claim onto a rather bulky piece of legislation about the time a connection of our family determined that it had potential.”

  Benny stared at his uncle. “The whole…continent belongs to us?”

  “Yes. In rather convoluted language, and nobody seems to have noticed, but yes. We have…er…encouraged the belief that it’s worthless rock, but in fact there are valuable mineral deposits and…you can look at the file for the rest. Now that others have noticed it exists, we need to make our claim public and decide what to do from here on—and I want you to bring me some proposals. We’re meeting—all the seniors in the family—the day after tomorrow.”

  “But sir—Uncle—what about the military presence?”

  “Long story; read the file. It’s data-dense, and it has keys that will get you into the files stored in our servers at Portmentor. Don’t lose it.”

  “I won’t,” Benny said. At his uncle’s nod, he rose—his knees feeling a bit unsteady—and went to the door. Max was still in the outer office; behind him he heard his uncle’s voice calling, “Come on in, Max!”

  Benny’s own office was down two floors, and his com light was blinking when he arrived. His sister Linny, he noted on the screen. He slid the folder into his office safe and locked it, then sat down at his desk.

  “What did he want?” was Linny’s first question. “Did he give you the promotion?”

  “No. He was annoyed with Max for that operation against Grace Vatta.”

  “That viper,” Linny said. “It should’ve killed her.”

  “Lin. It didn’t kill her and it could have repercussions on the family. Using a rare weapon isn’t the smartest choice. We’re not supposed to have that stuff.”

  “We’re not supposed to have a lot of things,” Linny said. She was, Benny reflected, the most openly bloodthirsty and action-oriented Quindlan of his immediate family, and he wished she’d been tamed before she’d become his responsibility.

  “Lin. You’re still fourth tier. Do not start anything.”

  “Oh, big brother’s going to scooold me? I’m so scared.”

  “Big brother is telling you not to buck first tier unless you want to spend the next two years counting barnacles on the dock on one of the smaller islands.”

  “Uncle Mike wouldn’t do that. He likes me. He likes me better than you.”

  “That may be, but he doesn’t like anyone to cross him.”

  She closed the call without answering. Typical. Benny looked at his schedule, told his clerk to hold calls from anyone junior to him, unlocked the safe, and opened the file. A day-after-tomorrow meeting meant his uncle would expect an outline of his presentation by noon tomorrow.

  Two hours later, a call buzzed through. “How’s it going?” asked his uncle. “What page are you on?”

  “One oh five,” Benny said.

  “Good. That chart on one oh three?”

  “Yes?”

  “New data. I’ll send it to your desk, unlabeled. You can figure it out.”

  And that was all. Benny allowed himself a moment of rubbing his temples and wishing he’d been born into another family before pulling up the new data.

  MARVIN J. PEAKE MILITARY HOSPITAL

  Mac sat down in the chair beside the bed and took Grace’s hand. He could see the tiny red marks on her face, on her arms, and Maillard had told him privately what they meant. Her gaze was hazed, as if she was in pain, or sedated, but she hadn’t had the sedative yet. Across the room, two nurses organized a tray of equipment and drugs. He hated seeing her like this, and he knew she hated being here, needing to be here.

  “I hope what Maillard does will clear this out,” Grac
e said.

  “I’m going to trust that it will, and that your usual hardheaded stubbornness will pull you through anything. Most people your age wouldn’t have survived having their arm shot off.” He squeezed her hand, but felt her wince and let up his grip.

  “I was younger then. Every year counts.”

  He softened his voice before asking, “Are you really worried, Grace?”

  “Not exactly worried. Just…taking it seriously.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Past things. Memories floating up. I think the records were all sufficiently slagged, but—”

  He put a finger to her lips. “I’ll be here. If you start babbling about something you shouldn’t, I’ll see that nobody hears it, if I have to sing opera at the top of my lungs.”

  Grace laughed; she couldn’t help it. And at that moment, Maillard walked in at the head of a line of assistants, all ready.

  “Good to hear you laugh, Rector. This is the team that will be working on you. Jess, give the master sergeant custody of the implant support box. Rector, you will have a sedative and then local anesthesia for the process of removing your implant, because although it is not physically painful, it can be quite disorienting. Then general anesthesia for the chill-down and flush of the toxin.”

  Grace did not argue. That in itself told Mac she was not anywhere close to being well.

  —

  Stella called Ky in early afternoon. “Grace is getting some complicated procedure; Mac is staying with her. I’ve been told not to come to the hospital, not to send flowers, just to wait. She’s our relative. I hate waiting.”

  “And I hate being locked out of official channels,” Ky said. “There’s nothing at all on the news about the other survivors. Plus Rafe and Teague looking at me as if I’m supposed to pull the stuff they want out of the air.”